


the time bomb clock (is counting down)

by ImNothing



Category: Markiplier Egos, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Visions, basically a WIP idk if I'll finish, for now (?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 12:24:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18052463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImNothing/pseuds/ImNothing
Summary: Sometimes life sucks when you know what's going to happen. Sometimes it's entertaining when something out of the ordinary happens, giving the day a splash of flavor and, at last, a challenge. Only one of these is true when the Host rises from his bed.





	the time bomb clock (is counting down)

**Author's Note:**

> (title from the song Villain by Wild Fire)

“Visions of supposed and possible futures plagued the Host constantly, but at night, without the distraction of the day’s tedious details described aloud in narrations by the Host’s tongue, they come on relentlessly. Some nights, they lay quiet and dormant, but only akin to a lion down in a crouch. It hasn’t dared to pounce in day yet, thankfully, but he knows it’s only a matter of time.”

 

“Tonight, with silver moonlight slipping tentatively through the thin curtains, illuminating the fluttering specks of dust and scattered parchment across the desk, they stay silent. The Host wishes they’d lie without wake rather than in wait… Alas, he reaches to See a glimpse of tomorrow, in which he’ll crumble in any room he finds himself in at…” He pauses, searching for a room with a clock that he may pass tomorrow, then for the time seconds before his vision blurs and monsters of his mind lurch- “11:47 am, racked with… or wracked? Can his dictionary or hand respectively, and respectfully, agree? The use of homophones made him chuckle.” And not a moment later, he chuckled. He didn’t want the sun to rise.

 

What had been foreseen by the Host, before he narrated his way to his bed, did not appear preventable to him. It appeared as such because it was  _ not _ . Tomorrow, when he Saw the clock reach 11:47, he would crumble while the world blurred and monsters lurched and (w)racked him with not an ounce of respect for his dignity. Their only wish is to become reality and harass its inhabitants. He wouldn’t allow it.

 

Tonight, he laid in his bed, fearing sleep in silence. A narration plagued by nightmares and visions could be woven into fate if he let his consciousness slip. It was easy to keep tabs on it as long as he was awake. The whispers in his mind wouldn’t be spoken.

 

“The sun-” he yawned, “has risen. A sleepless night cuts the sentence in half, and he… doesn’t, to put it lightly, give a shit. The disuse of his voice in the quiet night left his voice rough and narrations quickly became half-assed and far less formal. He wishes to keep them short to preserve his voice, as he finds it doesn’t just need to be warmed up.” The Host cleared his throat in testing, wincing at its soreness, and hoped water was all it needed.

 

Reciting his movements in minimal detail, he made it to the kitchen sink and downed a glass of water successfully. His throat burns. “The Host is fine,” he muttered in annoyance yet still matter-of-factly, “but may take time to lie down again to provide-” The sentence came to an abrupt stop in favor of a cough, which he attempted to suppress as a sequence of upcoming events played past his Eye.

 

“Dark comes to,” he cleared his throat, “remind the Host of the upcoming meeting this morning prior to lunch.” A chill worked its way down his spine when the edges of the mentioned’s aura brushed over his side.

 

“Yes,” the head of the house confirmed with his aura now slowly engulfing him, “and I insist you aren’t a minute late.” The Host, mind already beginning to haze, only nodded in agreement while the world around him faded into blackened hues. The haze only lifted slightly when Dark retreated to the hallway, allowing color to return. He was left dizzy, but the command lingered in his mind.

 

“The Host will be there,” he reaffirmed to no one, “at 11 when it begins.” Forty-seven minutes wouldn’t kill him. It may only kill the others.

 

-

 

There was a clock behind where Dark sat, meaning this was, in fact, the room he Saw and this was, in fact, where this was going to happen. He didn’t want that. He wanted to prevent it. When did he get what he wanted in these times?

 

Each passing minute, each  **tick** made, sent a minor wave of panic wading through his system. It was progressively harder to narrate and listen while a bomb was  **tick** ing down and the time was  **tick** ing away and Wilford was a  **tick** burrowing in his head and leg and side and eye and  _ Eye _ and mouth and  _ mind- _

 

“The forsaken clock stops its infamous  **tick** ,” he hissed under his breath. It stopped immediately.

 

It took him several minutes he didn’t know were passing to notice the minute hand had to stop moving to stop that  _ sound _ . It took a few more to realize 11:47 had to have passed. It had stopped a minute before its third quarter.

 

He didn’t hear the first  **tick** when his attention waded back to Wilford’s overly enthusiastic explanation, beside him Bim adding in details here and there to make it more realistic to the company’s liking. He didn’t hear the second. He didn’t See it. He couldn’t See-

 

“The Host rises from his seat and hastily makes his way to his bedroom. The room remains seated and takes neither notice nor care.” Was what he was going to say. He had made it to the first ‘and’. So rather, he howled.

**Author's Note:**

> Should I continue this? Leave a comment below~


End file.
